


Tomorrow is a Long Time

by thelastfig



Series: We were only trying to drown him [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Historical, M/M, Memory Alteration, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastfig/pseuds/thelastfig
Summary: "There are many monsters out here," she says to him, eyes sweeping the horizon, "do not become one of them."----It's the Golden Age of Piracy in the New World. Everyone on the Black Dog is searching for something be it redemption, rebirth, or revenge; the silence and rage emanating from their newest crew member has all signs pointing toward revenge.





	

The sound is foreign to most, a steady sweeping noise with a mechanical click. It is almost like a heartbeat, but of what sort of creature no one is sure. It is too fast and steady to belong to anything living as there are no deviations from its steady and unending pace. The artificial heartbeat fades to the background once a person is on the ship for long enough, but if someone was curious enough to find the source of the sound, they would soon discover the heartbeat was not one item, but many. There is a room where there are many faces, but only one real beating heart.

 

But just because a heart is beating does not mean the one it belongs to is alive.

 

***

 

Port Royal is what Sodom wishes it could have been. There is no shortage of liquor, drugs, or sex, and likewise cruelty, poverty, and death. With the Brethren protecting it under the Crown-appointed Privateer-turned-Governor Fick, Port Royal is safe harbor for any English-allied privateer, buccaneer, or pirate who wishes to drop anchor and, more importantly, drop coin. Carwood Lipton sees all sorts of people as they come and go from the tavern he owns. There is never a dull moment at the Currahee, not with the the large number of sailors coming to port or trying to leave it. He sees men looking for glory, some looking for adventure, others for money. It is rare he sees a man who doesn't know what he's looking for, but for the third night in a row a man he can only describe as lost is sitting alone in a corner. Most men travel in groups as there is safety in numbers; despite Port Royal being a safe harbor there is no such thing as trustworthy in the Caribbean. This man is small, but as far as Carwood can see, no one has bothered him.

 

As the night progresses, Carwood keeps an eye on him. A few patrons approach the man, but nothing other than a few words are exchanged. There are no fights, there is nothing suspicious, and that in and of itself sets Carwood's internal warning off. As he fills drinks and attempts to keep tables somewhat clean, he circles the man and realizes his earlier assessment of the man being lost is wrong. This man is not lost; this man is angry and his rage surrounds him like fire.

 

The pace picks up and he doesn't have time to people watch, no matter how interesting he finds his subject. He is lucky as tonight there are no fights, and only one man attempts to leave without paying his tab. People wander out when the moon is high overhead, looking for flop houses or heading back to anchored ships. The Currahee has a few rooms for rent, but in the dry season no one is willing to spend coins when they can sleep outside. He grabs a broom and begins to sweep up garbage and other broken odds and ends when he realizes the man is still sitting in a corner.

 

"We're going to be locking up soon," Carwood tells him, voice firm but not unkind. The man does not move or say anything. "Did you hear me?"

 

No response. Carwood frowns, grabs the broom tightly incase he needs to use it as a weapon, and approaches the man. Standing in front of the man he looks down and sees dark eyes that are equally defiant and sad. These are eyes that hold a story, but right now Carwood is tired and the story can wait.

 

"It's time to-" Carwood begins, but is cut off.

 

"Time is not important," the man says and Carwood wonders if he's had more than just alcohol. "I heard you can help me."

 

Carwood gives him a long stare. To his credit, the man doesn't look away or even blink. The more Carwood looks, the more he sees. Yes there is anger, defiance, and sadness, but underneath it all there is the pain of heartbreak. He knows this look- it's the look of someone who doesn't have anything left to live for.

 

Carwood sighs, props the broom against the table, and sits down. "What's your name and what type of help do you need?"

 

The man ignores the first question, but answers the second. "Word is you know the captain of the Black Dog."

 

Oh.

 

"That's not how it works," Carwood's words are gentle as there is a good chance this man has spent a great deal of money to come to Port Royal. He wasn't the first, and Carwood knows he won't be the last. "I can find another ship for you but-"

 

"No." The man doesn't let Carwood finish. "I didn't come here for another ship."

 

"Then you shouldn't have come." Carwood is a patient man, but patience ends when the tavern closes and all he wants is his bed. Standing, he grabs his broom and resumes sweeping. "The Captain of the Black Dog finds his crew, they do not go looking for him."

 

He feels the man's eyes follow him around the bar as he grabs cups and plates to stack. Carwood is the only one left in the bar, and he isn't looking forward to things turning ugly. He knows if he shouts, one of his workers will come, but he doesn't want to resort to violence.

 

"Time is not important." The man says again as he stands to leave. "I can wait."

 

And he does. Day after day, week after week, and a little over a month does the man wait. Always in the back corner, always alone, the man waits. Sometimes Carwood sees him tinkering with something, something too small for him to make out in the dark light of the tavern and can disappear quickly into a pocket if someone comes too close. The man grows on him, or at least the stories Carwood make up in his mind about him do. There are only two things that can drive a man into the spiral he sees this man falling into, and Carwood has a suspicion it is both. A twinge of a smile finds its way onto his lips. Maybe the man's perseverance will pay off.

 

***

 

The palms of his hands are sweating as the old man pokes and prods at them. It's not often someone is examining his hands, but it's rare for an apprenticeship to become available and even more rare for someone as beautiful as the girl in the doorway to be stealing glances at him. The old man, Master Welch, seems to find his hands acceptable, grumbling that they'll do and a few other unintelligible things under his breath.

 

"What's your name again?" Master Welch all but barks at him.

 

"Perconte, sir. Frank."

 

"Frank." Master Welch frowns when he sees his daughter standing there; she fixes her father with a sweet smile and the old man rolls his eyes. "There are two rules for being my apprentice. Do what I say when I say it and do not look at my daughter. I won't have some apprentice scoundrel trying anything."

 

"Yes sir." Frank keeps his eyes straight ahead, but he hears a soft giggle and light footsteps as the girl retreats from the room.

 

Master Welch has a reputation, and none of his apprentices last. Most boys Frank's age work the fields or in the port. Apprenticing with a master is an honor, but with Master Welch it's become something of a curse. Clockmaking is relatively new, but the money is more than good. Frank's small and nimble hands make him an excellent candidate (or victim if you ask previous apprentices), and so he finds himself making gears, coiling springs, and fine tuning pendulum swings. Often he goes to bed with splinters in his fingers from carving housing for the clock-faces or burns on his arms from hot metal. It is endless, thankless work, but Frank wouldn't trade a roof over his head and food in his stomach for anything.

 

Miss Welch works in the studio with them from time to time. When Master Welch isn't looking Frank steals glances at her, her steady hand drawing numbers, notches, embellishments, and decorations on the vellum used for clock faces. She always has a smile for him, one that starts slow at the corner of her lips and rises until her entire face shines. She is clever to hide these from her father, who watches Frank like a hawk when they are all in the room together.

 

Each and every time he finishes a piece and feels it beginning to tick in his hands, he sighs in relief at having conquered another design and inching closer to finishing his apprenticeship. Time has moved slowly, but he has remained constant. Frank looks up, new pocket watch alive in his hands, and sees her smiling at him.  He wonders if she can hear his heart trying to jump out of his chest, matching the clock beat for beat.

 

***

 

When the Black Dog anchors in the middle of a storm, people make themselves scarce. It's not so much the ship itself or the crew, but the man who captains them. There are rumors about him, rumors that have turned the man into a living legend. Whether these rumors are true or not, there is a strange aura hanging over the man, something that invokes a primitive fear in anyone who sets eyes on him. The hot, sticky air chills when he is around, and people avoid eye contact. He moves with intent, anyone who sees him will say he glides like a wraith and his feet don't touch the ground, bag strapped around his shoulder, up the alleys to the only tavern brave enough to do business with him.

 

Tonight it is already past midnight and there are few around to see him, but those who do scatter like roaches. In his hands he holds a small, wrapped package, a parcel needing to be delivered. The door to the Currahee is still open, but the tavern is empty; it's most likely been empty since the Black Dog was spotted on the horizon. A grim smile quirks at the corner of his lips as he thinks sometimes his reputation isn't a bad thing.

 

"Captain Speirs," Carwood is sitting behind the bar, tallying something on a piece of ripped cloth with a bit of charcoal, "I had a feeling this is why our business was bad tonight."

 

There is humor in Carwood's eyes, and something clenches deep in Ron's stomach. He nods, sliver of a smile on his face, and crossing the room he places the parcel on the counter between them. The humor is gone from Carwood's eyes, something else taking its place as he looks down at the parcel; Ron ignores the stab of disappointment making itself known in his chest. He places his hand over Carwood's, thumb tracing a circle against Carwood’s skin, and opens his mouth to speak before deciding against it. Carwood looks back up at Ron, expression carefully neutral, before his eyes dart to the corner of the room.

 

There is a man sitting at the table in the corner, dark eyes piercing through Ron like he sees Ron exactly for what he is. How interesting.

 

"He has been waiting for you for a long time," Carwood murmurs, pulling his hand away from Ron's. "Maybe you should listen to what he has to say."

 

Ron doesn't care what the man has to say. Words are cheap, meaningless, but actions he'll listen to any day. He crosses the tavern floor, his shadow encompassing much of the room in its sea of darkness. The man stands up, and no fear flickers across his face as Ron stalks closer. He's not much more than a slip of a man, Ron has seen more intimidating women trying to pass as men on various ships, but something in his eyes gives Ron a pause. These are the eyes of a man who has nothing left to live for, a man who is dead but for the beating heart in his chest.

 

"Let me see your hands."

 

The man hesitates for a moment, and no matter how carefully schooled he keeps his features Ron can see something akin to confusion for a brief second appear in his eyes before he holds his hands out. There are scars on them, thin lines from small cuts, discolored marks from burns, and calluses on his fingers from some sort of fine working. An artisan of some sort, Ron guesses, someone with a clever mind and fingers. Someone there is little use for on a ship.

 

"What are you looking for?"

 

"To give what is due."

 

Ron straightens and goes still as if struck by lightning. There is no escape, he thinks to himself as he scrutinizes the man further, not when she sends another one his way. With a nod and a motion to follow him, Ron turns on his heel and returns to the counter. The parcel is no longer there, but there is no mistaking the faint blush on Carwood's cheeks and Ron lets a satisfied smirk escape. Ron wants to reach out, see if his skin is as warm as the flush would indicate, but he is nothing if not disciplined.

 

"Thank you," Carwood says, but for the gift or taking the man with him, Ron does not know.

 

Closing his eyes, Ron lets the grin disappear from the face and the grim visage of Captain Speirs takes hold. Leaving the light of the tavern, he disappears into the night, small shadow stealing along beside him.

 

***

 

Master Welch is called away for business early in the fall of the third year of Frank's apprenticeship. By now Frank has completed numerous timepieces of various sizes, from pocket and pendant watches to mantel clocks and large free-standing ones. He can forge his own gears, sprockets, cases and hands from metal and carve their housing from wood and even marble. Frank is proficient enough to run the shop himself, working on less complicated pieces while simultaneously designing his master project. He finds pride in his work as Master Welch is the best master clock maker perhaps in all the colonies, and Frank is the only apprentice Master Welch hasn't sent packing. Frank is dedicated to learning and improving his skill no matter how harsh of a slave driver Master Welch can be, and so he keeps his head down and stays quiet.

 

The shop bell rings, and he looks up to see Miss Welch returning from tea with her friends. The sun has caught her across the nose, and the red burn gives away she has been out without her parasol or hat again.

 

"It's a good thing your father isn't here, Miss Welch," Frank says by way of greeting, doing his very best to not look back up at her.

 

"Evelyn," she says, her name rolling slowly off her tongue. "You can call me by my name."

 

"I do not think your father would like that." Frank is polishing gears that will be partially exposed for a new clock, and he is rubbing at them a little more vigorously than he should be so he has an excuse not to keep his eyes down. "I don't think it would be appropriate."

 

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor startles him and causes him to drop a gear. Looking up, he sees Miss Welch sitting down across from him, eyebrow raised as if to taunt him. He ignores her, reaching down to pick up the fallen gear and biting back the curse that wants to fall from his lips. Grabbing the cloth, he continues to polish it. Her laugh, like tiny tinkling bells, fills the shop, and he stops again to look at her.

 

"How is it, Mister Perconte," he doesn't dwell on how his heart catches like a rusted gear when she draws out his name, "none of the boys in town are immune to my charms except you?"

 

"Prolonged exposure," he retorts evenly without missing a beat. "Or perhaps their livelihoods do not depend on your father's generosity."

 

Miss Welch takes his words in stride, beaming at him as if he hasn't been standoffish, and chisling another nook into his heart. Standing once more, she drags the chair back to her normal work space, and flips through the list of orders to see which clock face she needs to illustrate next. Selecting one, she sits and quietly works on sanding down a board to the correct roundness to fit the designated space. An hour or so passes, and the sun begins to move closer to the horizon. Pinks and purples start to streak across the sky, and from the harbor the sounds of screaming gulls arguing over the days castoffs can be heard. Frank pauses in his work to admire the colors as well as shake out the tension in his shoulders from being this close to Miss Welch without a chaperone.

 

"My father is not as young as he once was," when she speaks again, there is no longer humor in her voice. "His hands…"

 

She does not need to finish speaking as Frank knows what she is speaking of. Master Welch only works on the mantel and large pendulum clocks now, leaving anything small for Frank. Years of the same repetitive motion has limited the mobility in his Master's hands, and work often causes his great pain. It is fortunate there is more money in the larger clocks, and Master Welch is financially stable from his well-known skill.

 

"My father has no sons," her voice cuts through the room like a knife, and Frank looks over at her, uncertainty on his features. "Daughters cannot inherit."

 

The clock face she has been working on is set aside to dry, black ink still wet. She stands, brushing the folds and wrinkles out of her skirts, and he sees her fingers are flecked with dark ink. Coming to stand before him, she reaches her hands out to trace a burn mark on his forearm, leaving a black trail in her finger's wake.

 

"You won't always be an apprentice." She takes her hand back, lips tilting up into a smile when she sees the awe-struck look he is failing miserably at keeping off of his face. Leaning forward, her soft lips brushing against the shell of his ear, she whispers, "Someday you will be my husband."

 

The confidence in her voice ignites something hot inside of him, but is too stunned to say anything. She pulls back, smiles sweetly at him, and leaves the room. Frank stares after her until the sun has almost set and the town's clock tower begins to chime.

 

***

 

There is a strange noise coming from the tiny compartment under the stern ladder. Charles Grant has never heard anything like it, at least, he doesn't think he has. He doesn't always remember what he does and doesn't know. Chuck, as he's known on the Black Dog, does remember the new guy lives in the solitary berth under the ladder because he creeps out the rest of the crew and no one wants to room with him. What was his name again? And what's making that noise?

 

Chuck isn't too bothered that he can't remember certain things, though he'll be the first to admit it can be a pain. He is forever grateful Captain Speirs took him on despite his condition, and even more thankful for the men who have his back. Every crew member aboard the Black Dog has proven, despite their quirks and irregularities, they are trustworthy. Every crew member except one.

 

As Second Mate… or was he Third Mate?... Chuck doesn't have to knock on the door, but something about the new guy leaves him apprehensive about barging in unannounced. He knocks loud enough for anyone to hear him over the din, and after a moment the man opens the door.

 

"Can I help you, Sir?" The man's voice is clipped, annoyed.

 

"I am assured you can fix firearms." The man nods. "Report to the magazine, and see if any of the new weapons brought on can be repaired or salvaged. If parts are needed, make a list Mister….?" And here Chuck trails off because no name is coming to him. When the man says nothing, he follows up with, "You do have a name?"

 

The man says nothing. Before Chuck can either reprimand him or make up a name for him, a chiming sound comes from the room. The man is short, and from where he's standing Chuck can easily look over and around him. There are multiple timepieces in the room, and now the clicks, chimes, and beating noises make sense to him.

 

"That's quite a collection."

 

The man steps out into the corridor, and pulls the door closed with a sharp yank. Breezing by Chuck, he makes his way in the direction of the ship's magazine and disappears from view. Chuck stands there for a few minutes, listening to the whirring of gears and the occasional chime. Eventually he hears footsteps and Floyd stumbles upon him; he only knows it's Floyd because he's the only one who calls him 'Charles' instead of 'Sir' or 'Chuck'. They've always been Charles and Floyd to each other, Chuck (or Grant) and Talbert to everyone else; Talbert has never left his side since the accident, and if Chuck could remember before, he's sure Talbert featured heavily in his life then as well.

 

"Charles, are you okay?"

 

"It reminds me of something," he says, hand motioning toward the closed door. "I just can't remember what."

 

He closes his eyes and sees random flashes, images that could be memories but could also be dreams he's had. With giant pieces of his past missing from his mind, it is hard for him to know what is real and what isn't. While losing some of his short term memories doesn't bother him, having gaping holes in his past pains him. At times he remembers a body pressed against his, fingers in his hair, lips against his skin, and a steady heartbeat he listened to as he fell asleep. Chuck will concentrate as hard as possible on the smoke of those memories, but as soon as he reaches for them they disappear.

 

"Charles?" Floyd's hand comes to rest on the small of his back.

 

"What… what's the new guy's name?" Chuck, opening his eyes.

 

"I don't know," Floyd removes his hand and scratches the back of his head with a shrug. "I don't think anyone knows. He's not exactly talkative."

 

"So it's not just me?" Chuck asks wryly, and Floyd snorts at the self-deprecating, if not dark, humor. "I sent him to try to fix those rifles."

 

"With Luz? I'm not sure if that's funny or cruel. Entertaining though."

 

If anyone can bring the new guy out of his shell, it would be George Luz. Either that or the new guy would jump overboard to try and end it all, but Chuck hopes it doesn't come to that. Everyone on the Black Dog is searching for something be it redemption, rebirth, or revenge, and the silence and rage emanating from their newest crew member has all signs pointing toward revenge. Chuck doesn't remember what he was looking for when Floyd and him joined the Black Dog, probably someone who wouldn't mind Chuck's condition, but if it was something else, he has a feeling he would know it when he found it.

 

"Do you think it's worse to have lived through something terrible but still have all your memories or just not remember anything bad or good?"

 

Floyd doesn't answer him, and an odd look flits across his face. Sometimes Chuck feels as if there is something Floyd isn't telling him, but he lets it slide. If Floyd wants him to know, Chuck is okay with letting him take his time.

 

"Time heals all wounds," Floyd murmurs, running a hand across the scar on Chuck's temple before flicking him in the ear and laughing at his indigent grumble. "We'll get your memories back if it takes my life." There's something in the way Floyd says those words that seems both familiar and gut-wrenching. "Now let's go make sure the new guy hasn't tested a fixed weapon on Luz."

 

Brushing the vague feeling of worry aside,  Chuck forces a laugh and follows Floyd away from the noisy room. The sound of the clocks fade until he doesn't remember they are there.

 

***

 

After five years have passed, Frank is not sure there is anything else Master Welch could possibly teach him. Frank can craft a wide range of time pieces from tiny pendants to large, free standing pendulums. His final project is all that separates him from being a Master Clockmaker, and once the title is conferred, well, Frank's not really sure. Master Welch hasn't taken on an apprentice since Frank was officially given journeyman status, not that there are many places to journey to in the colonies. Frank watches as Master Welch closely examines the project, removing parts and putting them back together again. Six months of toil on top of his normal work to complete something so tiny and delicate; the idea of his future, freedom to be his own man, depending on something so small is not lost on him.

 

"Do you remember the last clock I crafted?" Master Welch's sharp voice cuts into Frank's worrying.

 

Frank takes a moment to think, mind flying back months. "The pendulum clock for Nixon Nitrates newest ship."

 

Master Welch scowls. The theft of the clock, and the ship, by Barbarossa is still a sore subject even a year later.

"You have made every piece ordered since then," Master Welch grumbles, but Frank hears the pride normally reserved for Evelyn in his voice. "I think renaming the shop 'Welch and Son' will be more appropriate."

 

"Sir?"

 

"We both know this wasn't really made for my eyes, don't we _Master_ Perconte?"

 

A mix between a sob and relieved laugh catches in Frank's throat at Master Welch's use of the Master title. His shoulders relax, and he shakes Master Welch's hands for the first time not as Master and Apprentice but as equals. Tension eases from him until he remembers Master Welch's words. Welch and Son?

 

"Oh don't be an idiot," Master Welch grouses, hitting Frank in the shin with his cane. "She's probably listening now, always so nosey. Evelyn!"

 

To her credit, Evelyn doesn't even pretend she wasn't listening as she glides into the room not even a second later, a hopeful smile on her face. Master Welch carefully hands Frank back his final project and claps a hand on his shoulder. Frank's earlier relief is gone as anxiety crashes into him like a wave. He feels his palms begin to sweat and grows nervous that he might drop the item in his hand.

 

"Master Perconte has something he wants to ask you," Master Welch prods Frank with his cane when Frank stares mutely at Evelyn.

 

"I… uh… I made this." Frank holds out the tiny, heart shaped locket watch to her. "For you. I made this for you."

 

Evelyn takes the watch from him with gentle hands and examines it closely. The watch is smaller than anything he's ever made or even seen, taking up less than half of Evelyn's palm. The cover is a delicate golden filagree, and instead of a clockface, Frank has left the gears exposed so the masterfully crafted tiny components can be seen.  He gnaws at the inside of his cheek as he watches Evelyn turn it over and over in her hands. The care and time it took to create is evident in the design; it's a labour of love and speaks of devotion.

 

"It's beautiful," she finally says, and when she looks up at him he is startled to see tears in her eyes. "I knew you would be my husband someday."

 

Master Welch heaves a sigh at his daughter's lack of decorum, which draws a laugh from her and a smile from Frank. He reaches up with his calluses, scarred hand and gently wipes her tears away, savoring the soft feel of her skin. Her sweet smile emboldens him to cup her cheek in his hand, and he closes the distance between them to lay a kiss on her lips. Master Welch grumbles behind them, and he feels her smile and laughter against his mouth, the gentle beat of the watch in their entwined hands.

 

***

 

Low lying clouds on a moonless night help mask the Black Dog as it glides through the opening of the bay, hugging the dark cliff face as close as possible. A week of storms have left battered ships scrambling to find safe harbors to drop anchors; they are ripe for the picking. Shifty sees the schooner flying Dutch colors late in the afternoon during a brief stay in the rain. He doesn't think they've seen the Black Dog as they continue their path towards the bay's opening.

 

Relaying what he has seen down to the deck, he is not surprised when Captain Speirs joins him a few minutes later. Shifty describes what he's seen and their probable trajectory while Captain Speirs keeps his eyes trained on the island in the distance. The burning edges of the tobacco in the Captain's pipe catches in his dark eyes, painting an otherworldly fire. Shifty knows why Captain Speirs strikes fear into others. Not to him though; Shifty's always though the Captain's done right by him and the crew and he doesn't question the rumors.

 

"Your eyes are a credit to us," the Captain says as he flicks ash out of his pipe. "I want you up here with your rifle when he go aboard."

 

"Yes sir," Shifty drawls softly and in the blink of an eye, the Captain is gone again.

 

The crew gathers as they near the island to listen to the Captain go over their plan of attack. They will wait for the cover of darkness before entering the bay and sailing as close to the other ship as possible. Bull and Martin will lead two teams onto the ship to incapacitate the crew and capture it after Malarkey and the cannon gunners fire two rounds of volleys into the ship. Shifty will snipe from the top with Chuck reloading rifles for him and Talbert being the Captain's eyes from above. It's risky as they do not have intel on their target, but one schooner is unlikely to be a match for the seasoned crew of the Black Dog.  

 

Shifty follows Chuck into the magazine, and grabs two rifles while Chuck collects gunpowder and bullets. Talbert is off making sure everyone has whatever weapons they prefer and the cannons are primed to fire. As they near the entrance to the bay, the torches are extinguished and anything with a reflective surface is covered.

 

"Silence on deck," Talbert tells the men as they enter the bay. "At the ready."

 

Shifty, Chuck, and Talbert climb to the partially fortified top. It's a bit of a squeeze with three of them sitting there with weapons, but once they dock alongside the schooner, Talbert will be out on the yard watching the crew. Shifty loads the rifles, sure they are primed to go, and leans forward to wait. From the top he can see for miles around, or at least he could if the clouds weren't blocking out the light of the stars. In the distance the lights on the Dutch schooner paint a bright target, but Shifty finds his eyes drawn to his crewmates.

 

Captain Speirs is at the helm for the risky sailing this close to the coast. With anyone else Shifty would fear for the rocks or a sandbar, but Captain Speirs pilots with an unnatural talent Shifty puts his trust in. Bull has his party on the main deck while Martin's party is on the forecastle. If

he could see through the deck, he knows he would see Malarkey and the gunners waiting on orders to fire. Luz is standing at the ladder separating the main deck and the gun deck watching for the Captain's signal to fire. Frowning, Shifty notices someone standing next to Captain Speirs. The thick eyebrows knotted in a glare combined with the short stature means it's FT.

 

FT isn't the man's real name, but in the little more than two years he's been a part of the Black Dog's crew, he has never given his name. The others like to speculate on why that is, if he's a wanted man in hiding and what sort of criminal past he has. To his credit, he pulls his weight and fights well, the two things most important to the others. When they loot other ships, or the occasional outpost, the only items the man takes are clocks and watches. A strange collection, but one worth its weight in silver and for some pieces, gold. When the ship takes on a heartbeat from the growing collection, they begin to call him Father Time, or FT for short. As FT doesn't

provide his real name or an alternative, it's stuck with him.

 

Talbert taps his shoulder, and Shifty stands. Chuck hands him a rifle, and Shifty brings the deck of the Dutch ship into his sights. They haven't been spotted yet, but that will quickly change.

 

"Brace," Talbert whispers.

 

The skies light up as the cannons fire, the reverberation coursing through the ship as the smell of gunpowder washes over them. A bell begins to clang on the Dutch ship, an unnecessary call to arms, and it is quickly drowned out by the second round of cannon fire from the Black Dog. With a cry, the two parties are quick as they lay down their boarding plants and rush onto the other ship. Talbert begins barking orders down for Luz to relay to the different teams. Shifty sees movement toward the lone cannon on the Dutch ship's deck.

 

Breathe in. Aim. Pull the trigger as you breathe out.

 

Chuck has the next rifle waiting for him, and takes the used one to reload. Shifty sees one of his crewmates partially exposed and eliminates a threat with a headshot before he can even swing his sword. Chuck hands him the first rifle when Talbert shouts to them FT is going on and to brace for another round of cannon fire.

 

Shifty grabs a rope to steady himself as the ship rocks with the force of the cannons firing. From the smoke, FT emerges with his sword in one hand and a blunderbuss in the other. He moves with stark efficiency and without a thought to self-preservation. Shifty follows him, taking out anyone who comes too close while FT is focused elsewhere. Arcs of red fly into the air in the wake of FT's swing, the teeth of his self-forged sword glint in the torchlight.

 

Each boarding or raid feels like an eternity from Shifty's perch, but in reality, it is over in a few minutes. The crew of the Dutch ship stand down, and they are kept on the deck, wrists and ankles bound with rope as Captain Speirs boards. Luz takes the helm as Talbert goes to join their Captain. Shifty stays where he is, Chuck still by his side to load rifles incase of any surprises. Captain Speirs is strolling in front of the captured sailors, and Chuck snickers at the terrified looks on their face when he pulls out a can of chewing tobacco and offers it to them. Martin has taken his party below deck to see if there are any items worth plundering aside from weapons and provisions.

 

"Whose turn is it?" The Captain asks, and smirks light up the crew's' faces. "Bull, it's your turn if I recall?" He takes out his pipe and lights it. "What should we do with this crew?"

 

Shouted suggestions come from all the men, ranging from marooning, being set adrift, and the ever popular 'no quarter'. Bull pretends to mull it over as he chews on the end of a cigar liberated from the Dutch captain. Before he can make his decision know, the door to the Captain's Quarters burst open so quickly it rips off one of the hinges. FT storms out, something clutched in his hands, rage so thick around him it's nearly visible.

 

"Where did you get this?" He leans down into the Dutch captain's face, voice booming like thunder. When there is no response, he puts the item down and uses both hands to haul the man to his knees and leans down and snarls, "Where did you get this?"

 

The captain does not have the same composure Captain Speirs has, or really any at all, and begins babbling in Dutch as he shakes in FT's grip. Captain Speirs translates, but his voice is so soft Shifty can't hear what is being said. Whatever it is, Shifty sees the anger building in FT and fear in the Dutch crew. Everyone on the Black Dog is looking for something, and it is becoming evident FT has found what he is looking for.

 

Before anyone can blink FT drags the man to his feet, pulls out a pistol, and kneecaps him. His grip is so strong that even though the man's leg is destroyed, he does not fall to the ground. The crew of the Black Dog do not move to stop him as he drags the screaming man over to the side of the ship, but restrain the Dutch crew as they cry out to their captain. FT makes sure the ropes around the man's arms are secure before dangling him over the edge, the man's one good leg the only thing anchoring him to the ship.

 

"This is a kindness compared to what you have done to me," FT's voice is devoid of any emotion, it is cold and endless. "Tell me, do you know what helplessness feels like?"

 

There is silence when FT lets go. The man's shattered knee hits the flat water first, ripping a scream from his throat. Everyone can hear his cries for help over the sound of thrashing as he tries to stay above water. Shifty can see the water being disturbed, but eventually the waves stop and only air bubbles come to the surface. The air bubbles ultimately disappear, but FT stands there for a moment longer, not moving even when Captain Speirs gives the order for no quarter. When he does move, he is a wraith who does not see the death and chaos around him, stopping only to pick up the clock before returning to the Black Dog.

 

The ship is plundered, the captives quickly dealt with, and in the morning the only hint the Black Dog was ever there is a fading curl of smoke from a pyre on the beach.

 

***

 

The warning bells can be heard miles away. Frank hears them, but doesn't start running until he sees smoke. He's a far distance away from home, delivering his latest commission to a plantation house in the country, but still he runs. He runs until breathing becomes difficult, until he can't hear anything but his heart beating in his ears. Legs numb, shoes torn to shreds, Frank does not stop until he crests the hill and looks down to see the port town burning. People are passing him now, fleeing the destruction and fire, but Frank presses on, ignoring the fear curling in his gut. Through the smoke he sees two ships, both flying Dutch flags, being loaded with looted items.

 

The two ships are sailing out of the port but the time Frank finds a way through the flames. He searches for his family in the face of everyone he passes, calling for Evelyn when he nears their house. The streets are wet despite it not having rained in a week, the mud clinging to him more red than brown. Frank doesn't look down, doesn't look at the bodies on the streets.

 

The shop is empty. The safe has been broken open, the shelves have been looted; without the clocks, silence echoes heavily in his mind. The walls are splattered with a liquid not dark enough to be ink. Smoke wafts in through the shattered window, curling around him, beckoning him toward the open door and into the next room. Frank falls to his knees and discovers what being powerless truly feels like.

 

When the fires are put out, Frank digs three graves and buries his heart. The broken mechanical clock hanging around his neck will have to do for now.

 

***

 

From the top, Frank sees nothing but blue stretching in every direction. He's high enough up the salty spray from the sea won't sting his nose, and he breathes deeply, willing the tension he carries to ease away. From one of his pockets he pulls out his tool kit, from under his shirt he pulls the heart-shaped watch from where it sits warm but unmoving against his chest. The final bent gears were straightened months ago, but he has found himself unable to wind it.

 

"Are you fulfilled now?" A familiar voice asks him, and he does not look up from his minute corrections of the filigree

 

"Will I ever be?"

 

"Not while you prevent yourself." Frank tucks the tools away and places the watch back inside his shirt. "You know, you have a family here."

 

"And that's a good replacement?" He looks up at her, displeasure etched onto his face.

 

Her hair is long and black today, fluttering behind her as the wind plays with the strands. She is beautiful and terrible, both a calm day and a hurricane. Wings come in and out of view behind her, sometimes white, sometimes black, and when she smiles at him the sadness in her features crash over him like a wave; she would bring lesser men to tears.

 

"You have given what is due, there is nothing left for you if you pursue this path." She pauses to run a hand through his hair like a mother would do for a child. "How many of those machines were yours, how many had nothing to do with them? Vengeance is not retribution, neither leads to absolution."

 

"You want me to forgive them."

 

"No, some things are unforgivable. It is time for you to forgive yourself."

 

A little more than two years have passed since she first appeared to him in the new cemetery on the hill top. She was little more than a grief-induced hallucination, pointing him toward Port Royal and whispering a name into his ear. He watches her watch the antics of the crew on the main deck, feels the vibrations of joy in the air around her as she giggles, tips of her wings moving with her in an extension of her laughter. Her smiles fades as the sun dips lower in sky, and eventually she leans back against the mast.

 

"There are many monsters out here," she says to him, eyes sweeping the horizon, "do not become one of them."

 

"Nemesis."

 

Captain Speirs' voice is firm and razor thin as it echoes behind them. Frank jumps to his feet while she turns slowly, letting her eyes rake over Captain Speirs form before grinning at him. It is clear from their expressions they know one another, and Frank doesn't know what to do but stand there and avoid both of their perceptive gazes.

 

"I will thank you to not bother my crew." Captain Speirs says after a long minute passes.

 

The air between them is charged and fear creeps into Frank's mind. He blinks. Fear. He hasn't felt anything other than anger and sadness in such a long time that he lets out a startled laugh, causing the other two to look at him in surprise.

 

"I will take my leave," she says, smiling at Frank, who gives her a sharp nod. Turning, she takes a step forward and clasps Captain Speirs on the forearm and says, "It is always nice to see family," before she disappears from view.

 

"I'm taking next watch," the Captain tells him as if nothing had happened. "You are relieved."

 

Captain Speirs lights his pipe as Frank gathers his bag. Before Frank can climb down the mast, Captain Speirs holds the pipe out to him. Frank looks down at it, back up to the blank stare on the Captain's face, and back down at the pipe again. Now that he remembers fear, Frank also remembers the rumors about Captain Speirs. He shakes his head no and climbs down before he sees the grin on Captain Speirs' face.

 

Half of the crew is on the top deck playing cards, a few others have fishing poles hanging over the side of the ship hoping to catch something for dinner. He hesitates before going below as he normally would, thinking back to the advice given to him. Looking around he sees the faces of men who have fought with and for him, men he has bled for and who have bled for him.

 

"Do you want to play, FT?" Shifty gives him a kind smile from where he is playing with Chuck and Talbert. "It's a new game, we're going slow because…" he looks in Chuck's direction.

 

Shifty always asks, even though the answer is always the same. The wind changes direction, pushing against his back and scattering some of the cards. He helps pick up the few that have blown his way, and he hands them to Talbert.

 

"I am told the best way to remember is to teach," he tells Chuck, who blinks at him in surprise. "Will you teach me how to play?"

 

"Of course!" Chuck's smile is something between astonished and confused, but he deals for four and they make room for him around the crate they're using as a table.

 

Their progress is slow, and he is more than aware most of the crew is on deck watching them, no one believing he is being sociable without see it with their own eyes. They each take a turn dealing, and when it is Frank's turn and he fumbles shuffling, he quietly thanks Shifty for showing him how. They're still playing when his room chimes underneath them, six strokes signalling shift change.

 

"Thank you," he tells Chuck as the man stands to take over the helm.

 

"You know you can play with us anytime FT," Shifty tells him, yawning as he stretches.

 

"Frank."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"My name is Frank."

 

A hush falls over the crew. Talbert is staring at him with wide eyes, Chuck look like he's not sure he heard correcting, and Shifty has that same unshakable smile.

 

"It's nice to put a name with a face, Frank."

 

"Frank?!?" He hears Luz squawk somewhere behind them. "FRANK?!?"

 

There's a rumble of laughter among the crew, and a few of them even go so far as to pat Frank on the back. A good-natured argument breaks out regarding the payouts of two betting pots regarding his name. It is too much too fast, and he is grateful when the Captain barks at them from above to report to their posts for watch. Frank escapes to his berth and lets the familiar ticking sound of the swinging pendulums calm him.

 

***

 

The clock retrieved from the Dutch ship takes a week to clean. There is blood and tissue splatter in the gears as well as rust from years of sea air exposure. Frank takes his time in repairing and reassembling his Master's last and greatest work. The intricate engravings intertwined Evelyn's favorite flowers with the gears of Frank's trade. The rust on the gears is such that Frank doubts it has worked since it was originally taken, a clock stuck in time and unable to keep it.Looking around his berth at the other clocks, he notes the time as he winds the clock. It springs to life, gears clicking together with no resistance, and Frank lets out a relieved sigh.

 

"I should be jealous at how you look at something else so beautiful," Evelyn had said when her father presented it to them as a wedding gift.

 

"Your father is a master crafter," Frank told her, his eyes moving slowly over her body and she had slapped his arm for being so bold. "I am appreciative of his work."

 

Frank remembers the flush in her cheeks as they danced in the light of the torches and bonfire, square filled with those celebrating their union. The beat of the drums, the fullness of her lips against his, the smell of the soap she used; some memories are strong as if they just occured while others have faded.

 

"Master Perconte," her mouth had moved across his jaws and muddled his thoughts later as they retreated to their now shared house, "what are you doing?"

 

"Winding the clock your father made us, Mrs. Perconte," it did not escape him how delighted he had been to call her that.

 

The warmth of her laugh filled the room, and she lifted herself from their bed and caught his hands in hers. He pulled her tightly against him, planting a kiss on her temple, thanking whatever power for this happiness.

 

"It can wait," her breath has ghosted across his skin as she pulled him back down. "We have all the time in the world."

 

Pulling at the chain around his neck, he brings Evelyn's pendent watch into his hands. It is motionless, quiet as the heart of the ship beats around him. The arrow shaped charm attached to the chain fits into a slot on the back of the watch. Inserting the arrow, Frank takes great care in turning it until he feels a slight pressure. Holding his breath, he pulls the arrow out. The watch hums to live in his hands and Frank's smile is bittersweet. Hiding it back away next to his skin, he feels the steady beat against his chest. Time moves on, and now Frank can move on with it.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and constructive criticism always appreciated.
> 
> This is the first part in a (hopefully) large and expanded pirate universe following the stories of various crew members of the Black Dog, the Easy Eagle, Wily Fox, and Bold Bravo. Hopefully I've left enough clues and teasers in this to spark interest in wanting to know more.
> 
> Thank you A_L and T_R for lending time to beta read for me and allowing me to bounce ideas off of you
> 
> L- thank you for helping pull me out of my writing slump <3


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